Again I see my bliss at hand,⁠The town, the lake, are here;
My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,⁠Unaltered with the year.

I know that graceful figure fair,⁠That cheek of languid hue;
I know that soft, enkerchiefed hair,⁠And those sweet eyes of blue.

Again I spring to make my choice;⁠Again in tones of ire
I hear a God's tremendous voice,—⁠"Be counselled, and retire."

Ye guiding Powers who join and part,⁠What would ye have with me?
Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,⁠And let the peaceful be!

II. PARTING.

⁠Ye storm-winds of autumn!⁠Who rush by, who shake⁠The window, and ruffle⁠The gleam-lighted lake;⁠Who cross to the hillside⁠Thin-sprinkled with farms,⁠Where the high woods strip sadly⁠Their yellowing arms,—⁠Ye are bound for the mountains!⁠Ah! with you let me go⁠Where your cold, distant barrier,⁠The vast range of snow,⁠Through the loose clouds lifts dimly⁠Its white peaks in air.⁠How deep is their stillness!⁠Ah! would I were there!

But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,
Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?
Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brook
That the sweet voice its upland clearness took?⁠Ah! it comes nearer—⁠Sweet notes, this way!

But who is this, by the half-opened door,
Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?
The sweet blue eyes—the soft, ash-colored hair—
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear—
The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tells
The unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells—⁠Ah! they bend nearer—⁠Sweet lips, this way!

I blame thee not! This heart, I know,
To be long loved was never framed;
For something in its depths doth glow
Too strange, too restless, too untamed.

And women,—things that live and move
Mined by the fever of the soul,—
They seek to find in those they love
Stern strength, and promise of control.

They ask not kindness, gentle ways;
These they themselves have tried and known:
They ask a soul which never sways
With the blind gusts that shake their own.

I too have felt the load I bore
In a too strong emotion's sway;
I too have wished, no woman more,
This starting, feverish heart away.

I too have longed for trenchant force,
And will like a dividing spear;
Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course,
Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear.

But in the world I learnt, what there
Thou too wilt surely one day prove,—
That will, that energy, though rare,
Are yet far, far less rare than love.

Go, then! till time and fate impress
This truth on thee, be mine no more!
They will! for thou, I feel, not less
Than I, wast destined to this lore.

We school our manners, act our parts;
But He, who sees us through and through.
Knows that the bent of both our hearts
Was to be gentle, tranquil, true.

And though we wear out life, alas!
Distracted as a homeless wind,
In beating where we must not pass,
In seeking what we shall not find;

Yet we shall one day gain, life past,
Clear prospect o'er our being's whole;
Shall see ourselves, and learn at last
Our true affinities of soul.

We shall not then deny a course
To every thought the mass ignore;
We shall not then call hardness force,
Nor lightness wisdom any more.

Then, in the eternal Father's smile,
Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare
To seem as free from pride and guile,
As good, as generous, as they are.

Then we shall know our friends! Though much
Will have been lost,—the help in strife,
The thousand sweet, still joys of such
As hand in hand face earthly life,—

Though these be lost, there will be yet
A sympathy august and pure;
Ennobled by a vast regret,
And by contrition sealed thrice sure.

And we, whose ways were unlike here,
May then more neighboring courses ply;
May to each other be brought near,
And greet across infinity.

How sweet, unreached by earthly jars,
My sister! to maintain with thee
The hush among the shining stars,
The calm upon the moonlit sea!

How sweet to feel, on the boon air,
All our unquiet pulses cease!
To feel that nothing can impair
The gentleness, the thirst for peace,—

The gentleness too rudely hurled
On this wild earth of hate and fear;
The thirst for peace, a raving world
Would never let us satiate here.

IV. ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE.

We were apart: yet, day by day,
I bade my heart more constant be.
I bade it keep the world away,
And grow a home for only thee;
Nor feared but thy love likewise grew,
Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.

The fault was grave! I might have known,
What far too soon, alas! I learned,—
The heart can bind itself alone,
And faith may oft be unreturned.
Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell.
Thou lov'st no more. Farewell! Farewell!

Farewell!—And thou, thou lonely heart,
Which never yet without remorse
Even for a moment didst depart
From thy remote and spherèd course
To haunt the place where passions reign,—
Back to thy solitude again!

Back! with the conscious thrill of shame
Which Luna felt, that summer-night,
Flash through her pure immortal frame,
When she forsook the starry height
To hang o'er Endymion's sleep
Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep.

Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved
How vain a thing is mortal love,
Wandering in heaven, far removed;
But thou hast long had place to prove
This truth,—to prove, and make thine own:
"Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone."

Or, if not quite alone, yet they
Which touch thee are unmating things,—
Ocean and clouds and night and day;
Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;
And life, and others' joy and pain,
And love, if love, of happier men.

Of happier men; for they, at least,
Have dreamed two human hearts might blend
In one, and were through faith released
From isolation without end
Prolonged; nor knew, although not less
Alone than thou, their loneliness.

V. TO MARGUERITE. CONTINUED.

Yes! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour,—

Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain:
Oh, might our marges meet again!

Who ordered that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled?
Who renders vain their deep desire?—
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.

VI. ABSENCE.

In this fair stranger's eyes of gray,⁠Thine eyes, my love! I see.
I shiver; for the passing day⁠Had borne me far from thee.

This is the curse of life! that not⁠A nobler, calmer train
Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot⁠Our passions from our brain;

But each day brings its petty dust,⁠Our soon-choked souls to fill;
And we forget because we must,⁠And not because we will.

I struggle towards the light; and ye,⁠Once-longed-for storms of love!
If with the light ye cannot be,⁠I bear that ye remove.

I struggle towards the light; but oh,⁠While yet the night is chill,
Upon time's barren, stormy flow,⁠Stay with me, Marguerite, still!

VII. THE TERRACE AT BERNE.

(COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.)

Ten years! and to my waking eye
Once more the roofs of Berne appear;
The rocky banks, the terrace high,
The stream! and do I linger here?

The clouds are on the Oberland,
The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;
But bright are those green fields at hand,
And through those fields comes down the Aar,

And from the blue twin-lakes it comes,
Flows by the town, the churchyard fair;
And 'neath the garden-walk it hums,
The house! and is my Marguerite there

Ah! shall I see thee, while a flush
Of startled pleasure floods thy brow,
Quick through the oleanders brush,
And clap thy hands, and cry, 'Tis thou!

Or hast thou long since wandered back,
Daughter of France! to France, thy home
And flitted down the flowery track
Where feet like thine too lightly come?